A Case for the New Detective
by the17thstep
Summary: A story in which John Watson mourns, becomes a detective, and learns that he was always more than just a sidekick. Post-Reichenbach. Little mystery, little angst, BAMF Watson, thieves and a priceless gem.
1. Chapter 1

He stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. And then to the words before, just typed.

_He was my best friend and I will always believe in him._

There was really nothing else to say was there? It was an apt summation of the entire event. The entirety of their relationship. Nothing else mattered really, not when the outcome was...this.

John thought on what he would have written, had he not...

Had things been...different.

The cursor blinked, again, and again, and again. Like a heartbeat...

Everything felt so slow. Too hot and too cold. John's enemy was his mind. He could hear it eating itself alive, whispering and whimpering as it did. Soon he would be tumbling, down the hole his mind had eaten into itself. Falling down and down, endlessly, colliding with abstractions, that formed words, that made up pictures, and those pictures were _real._This was real.

The cursor. The heartbeat. John's heartbeat, thudding and thudding and thudding, driving blood to his brain, that was eating a hole through itself that he was tumbling into. The images were rushing back; the pavement, dyed so thickly with blood that the puddle looked black. The rain with gentle fingers, coaxed deep red away into pink ribbons...

John gasped in and let out a wooshing breath of air as he leaned forward, eyes looking anywhere else but at the laptop screen. The small, sad squeaking noises had to be coming from the chair below him. Not from his tightening throat. Not from his gasping lungfuls of air.

"I don't want to. I don't want to..." He whispered to himself as he shook his head back and forth faster until he stopped and laid his forehead against the edge of the desk. It was a dull edge, but it hurt. He pressed into it harder, until he was sure it would leave a horizontal line.

_Wasn't there a gash on Sherlock's forehead like that? Straight. Defined. Right across his hair line._

"No please, no...no...no...I can't." His voice cracked.

His hands were trembling, leg was aching, shoulder was so stiff it felt as if it would snap, the tension of holding every fibre of muscle taut to keep _it _from coming.

_It_ ; The tears, the sobbing, the anger. The _world as it was without his best friend._

John needed to get up. He needed to move. If he grabbed for his cane (the only way he could walk anymore was with that god damn cane) it would be all over. He would begin to sob, he wouldn't be able to get up. He would fall.

At least he'd gotten the cane back from Angelo that first night. Thank God Sherlock had gotten it back for him. It was the _least _he could do, leave his friend with a crutch, something to cling to.

Something solid.

Sherlock was solid...warm...his friend. His best friend. Why had John never tried to hug him before?

Because Sherlock would have pushed him away.

Probably.

Definitely.

Knowing what he knew now, John was certain he wouldn't have let his friend push him away so easily.

John Watson would go to bed that night but he would not sleep. It was too quiet to sleep.

Mrs. Hudson could hear a loud sob echo through the hall, but she knew better than to go up to 221B. John hated when she saw him like that.

"Do you want me to help you pack up the rest of his books, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen of 221B, as she bustled about, running a rag over every surface that looked remotely dusty. The dust plumed in air and swirled in the light streaming through he curtains.

_What was it that Sherlock had said about dust? Something about it's elegance?_

John snapped one of the books in question closed. He'd began reading everything, everything his friend had left. All of those books and paper, they were important weren't they? Like little pieces of Sherlock's mind.

"No, thank you, I can take care of it, later."

The landlady came over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Keep all the books you like. At least the head is out of the fridge. You can fill this entire flat until it bursts with books and things and I wouldn't mind at all, as long as that.._head_ stays gone", she emphasized with a bit of disgust.

John laughed, "So I can keep the skull around?"

Mrs. Hudson eyed the skull warily, putting a hand to her face, clasping the other hand to her elbow, "It's terrifying but at least it's not rotting..."

The door bell rang sharply.

"Oh, oh! That would be for me! Would you like some tea up here later? And something to eat?"

John smiled as he looked down at the book again. Medical text, on Phrenology. Complete bollocks that whole idea was. Studying someones skull to determine their likelihood of becoming a criminal...

Was Moriarty's head oddly shaped? The doctor had never noticed...

"'Not my housekeeper' remember?", John replied in a murmur.

Mrs. Hudson waved away his words, "Just this once, hm?"

The bell rang three more times quickly.

Mrs. Hudson jumped and quickly shuffled down the stairs, yelling, "Here I come! Here I come!"

The front door opened quickly, bumping the wall, sharply. From the sound alone John knew the door knob would leave a mark on the wall. Maybe he could fix it for their..._his_ landlady. It wasn't as if he was busy with anything else. No one wanted to hire the madman who followed the 'fraud detective' around all over London. John knew how they looked at him when he went to interview for a position. He could see it behind their eyes.

_ 'Poor delusional man.'_

_ 'Probably doesn't have a grip on reality.'_

_ 'Only children play pretend-crime solver, not a grown man. Not a real doctor.'_

_ '...he probably helped the fraud set all of it up...'_

An accomplice to the illusion.

John bet Anderson's head was a funny shape. Mycroft's too...and Sally...phrenology would have them all damned, the idiots.

What did Sherlock's head look like? His hair was too messy to tell. He imagined it would be lumpy where parts of the brain had grown out from concentration of information stored in certain areas. Knowing over two-hundred kinds of cigarette ash would cause a swelling. Would the part where he knew everything about John be a small lump? Maybe in the back of his head that would be the bump that remembered how John liked his coffee, or how John always liked the left side of his desk clean so he wouldn't have to lean so far to use his laptop or his shoulder would ache, or what got on the doctor's nerves the most...

Or maybe that part of Sherlock's head was sadly concave...

The part that contained information on astronomy would be dented in. It's probably why he'd grown his hair out so wildly. Genius mind. Lumpy head. No one wants a man solving crimes who has a funny shaped head...

John smiled slightly.

But the fleeting moment of happiness, that fond thought of his lost friend, was just a herald to the darkness. He began to retreat into his mind, into the shadows where most of the memories of Sherlock lay. Even the good memories, all veiled by the black lace loss...

His thoughts began to tangle around him.

_His head, Sherlock's head._

_On the ground._

_Split open._

Like rope, round and round his thoughts wrapped him, until he was wound up tightly. He couldn't move. He could only sit stock still, staring...

_Bleeding and cut and smashed on the pavement. Eyes. Lifeless. Astonishingly lifeless._

Breath held...

_His eyes were open weren't they..._

And John's hands began to shake again. His throat felt tight.

The question, it still burned him him like a hot poker through his chest.

_Why?_

His friend was stronger than that. Strong enough to know that ending his life, when he could have solved all those problems Moriarty had created with John's help would have been so much simpler.

Did he think that John couldn't have _helped_? Did Sherlock think that he was a burden towards the end? Unable to help him sort it all out and continue on?

Was that what made his friend jump? Because the only person in the world who truly cared to help him was an ex-army doctor with a bum shoulder, too dim to be considered an equal?

The anger was taking over now.

John Watson was a weakness. He was Sherlock's bad leg, bad shoulder, slow mind. Too emotional, too sentimental, too _damaged._ John could hear it in Sherlock's voice in his head, resonating...

_Will caring about them help me save them? _

"No..." he whispered aloud.

_Then I will continue not to make that mistake._

No matter how much he cared for Sherlock, no matter how much, he could never have saved him. Emotions don't save people. Caring _doesn't _save people...

John would never hear his voice again.

His stomach clenched and boiled at the thought, as if he were to be sick. John was reeling. More thoughts kept flooding in. He could hear them all in Sherlock's voice. He could picture the man walking about his own body, lying on the concrete, leading John around, assessing the situation.

_The fall had probably broken his neck, damaged his windpipe. It wouldn't have mattered. He'd hit too hard to ever survive, too akwardly to survive._

Sherlock's body was in the ground now.

He was decomposing.

Sherlockwasdecomposing.

He was rotting like the head that was in the fridge.

...the head in the fridge.

Sherlock'sheadwasintheirfridge.

"_Jesusbloodychrist._"

John threw the book down quickly and dug his palms into his eyes. The image was there. It was burned into his memory. And it wasn't even real.

This is what it felt like. Not to be able to turn one's mind off. It was maddening. Ella would have a field day if he told her-

"John!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice pulled him back from his mental tail spin.

"Yeah?" He continued to rub his eyes. God he probably looked like a mess, eyes red, entire body vibrating.

"Come down! Have tea down here with us! Come meet your new neighbor!"

New neighbor?

John grabbed blindly for his cane and rose stiffly. He hobbled to the doorway of 221B before he stopped, turned, and went to the kitchen quickly. The cane clattered against the kitchen table and chairs as he threw it down and wrenched open the refrigerator door.

He took inventory, eyes flickering around unable to focus for a few moments.

Milk, jars, plastic containers...food. Just food. What the hell had he expected to see there?

Oh God, he was going crazy.


	2. Chapter 2

Posting this one up early. Going to try for two updates a week. This one's for you, reviewer Jodi! Haha, hope you enjoy.

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><p>...<p>

The din from the clattering plates was offset by the screeching of the tea kettle. Compared to the tinnitus-inducing silence of 221B, Mrs. Hudson's flat sounded like a construction area. John hobbled through the doorway turning to squeeze past Mrs. Hudson in her small kitchen space while planting a kiss on the landlady's cheek. Her smiling eyes followed him to the table where John sat across a young, probably late-twenties woman with brown-blonde hair and a friendly smile.

"Doctor John Watson," Mrs. Hudson always did prefer formalities while in company, "I'd like to introduce you to Beatrice Horn, new renter, taking on 221C."

The girl gave a raise of her hand in a waving gesture, "Hey."

"Oh, well, very nice to meet you...Beatrice? That's a nice name, don't hear that much anymore."

"Yeah my mom had a weird sense of humor or something. Probably hit her with the epidural too hard and then in a drug induced haze yelled out the name 'Beatrice!', you'd know you're a doctor, drugs do that stuff...make your mind all weird."

"Uhm...yeah-" John looked warily over to Mrs. Hudson who shook her head in just as much bewilderment. The girl continued to ramble. She moved around frenetically, her sentences ending very sharply.

"Oh speaking of, I need your 'doctor's opinion'...now, is this big red spot on the back of my arm gonna go away? I got paint on my arm, and I just decided to use a little turpentine to help it off and it's been really red ever since, but oil paint is hell to get off otherwise and I didn't have any of the good soap..."

Even her trailing sentences were sharp.

The girl rolled up the sleeve of her shirt and shoved her arm toward the doctor. He looked at the patch of redness and then to Mrs. Hudson with a 'please save me from this' look.

"I don't ...know-", he began.

"Oh! Y-you paint!" Mrs. Hudson said quickly, throwing the proverbial life preserver to John.

"Oh yeah, yeah," Beatrice pulled her arm back and rolled her sleeve to its normal length, "I hope that's not gonna be a problem or anything," Beatrice looked at the landlady, a serious expression set, "I don't want to cause any trouble while I'm here. It's nice enough for you to be renting me a room for such a short time as it is..."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and let out a small, "Oh no not at all!"

The girl turned her attention to John, and smiled wide.

"Don't mind the smell of paint and chemicals?"

John nearly laughed. After practically bathing in the fumes of formaldehyde for weeks after one of Sherlock's "experiments", the faint smell of turpentine or oil paint coming from far off would be a walk in the park.

"Not at all, I've smelled worse, don't worry..."

"Good! Good!", she was grinning even wider, "I think this is gonna work out swell."

...

John's face was wrinkled in a terrible frown. So much for 'I don't want to cause any trouble'. A week in and the girl in 221C had already grated his nerves. The table in the kitchen shifted slightly from the base of music _blaring_ from the flat below. She had it down to an art; Mrs. Hudson leaves, the music goes on.

The fumes were in fact bothersome. It was like she was placing every noxiously-fumed can-of-whatever right next to the vent the two flats shared.

And at night? She still clattered about. It sounded like she was throwing herself around the room, dull thuds at random intervals until early hours of the morning.

God, he felt like an old man. He wanted to take his cane and bang it on the floor, and tell her to_ turn that goddamn noise down some of us are trying to think_.

He closed the textbook on his lap, another he'd finished reading. Now he was up to five. Five books closer to being as smart as Sherlock. Five books closer to keeping the image of Sherlock "consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job" Holmes from falling complete to the darkerthoughts. The ones that made him run to the refrigerator to look for imaginary heads, the ones that made him limp, and ache and forget that Sherlock was 'this much taller than me, no I'm sure, that coat made him look tall but I'm not that short, alright'?

_I take the precaution of good coat and a short friend._

The memory, the phrase, he could hear it in his voice. Before he realized it, John had grabbed a pen and scrawled the words on the back of the book he'd just put down. They looked good there, vandalizing one of Sherlock's things. John didn't feel guilty.

Hadn't the detective left marks on him? Invisible ones that still burst open, just as he thought he'd stitched them up properly?

The sentence looked good there. It made him feel better.

"I should do that more often," John said aloud to himself, "but then I'd be writing all over the walls wouldn't I, Sherlock?..."

John hadn't noticed the music had stopped, hadn't noticed someone climbed the stairs to 221B, until there was a knock. He nearly jumped from his chair.

"Erm-um...come in."

Beatrice swung the door open and entered, armed with a cardboard-brown covered book and a grouping of pencils. Her arms were covered in paint (and really what was she doing? Painting with her goddamn elbows?) up to the short sleeves of her shirt. Wasn't it too cold to be in anything but a jumper?

John could smell the scent of paint coming from her. Artists were weird. John had dated a woman who was an artist, and she was weird. Kept up at all hours. Demanded certain arrangements of furniture in her flat at certain times of day to keep the 'light moving properly' or something like that...

Beatrice wore a deep frown, a contemplative one. She took a deep breath and held it as if looking for the right words to begin. John breathed in with her, his head tiling up as if it would help coax her into a sentence.

"I've hit a brick wall...figuratively..." She said quickly, eyes darting about and then landing suddenly on John's confused face, "Can I sit here with you for a while?"

John opened and closed his mouth. He didn't know what to say. He didn't really want company or anyone around, but what else was he doing? Just reading, and thinking. Thinking was the bad part, and reading was becoming tiresome. He couldn't keep shutting people out. The world would find him sometime, whether it be now or three months from now. The world at the moment just took the form of a pretty, if slightly annoying, blonde-ish foreign girl.

"...Sure. Why not."

Before he could get up and give her his seat, she drifted over to the chair across from John and sat down.

There was an immediate, visceral reaction, where John wanted to wrench her from the chair and shake her and tell her she was an idiot and that she couldn't sit _there, _but he beat it down quickly. That wasn't normal. That wasn't anyone's seat anymore, it wasn't anyone's side of the room. It wasn't.

The scrawling of pencil to paper brought him back to reality. He looked up slightly and watched the girl scan her eyes quickly over him and look back down just as quickly.

"What are you doing?"

"Drawing you...just stay a little still, you can move around, but not too much..."

Somehow it should have felt like an invasion of personal space, or privacy. Someone had just barged into his living quarters and started drawing him. Well, staying seated was preferable to chasing the woman out, lucky for her. If she was going to be up here, quiet, with her loud music off, that was a plus. Only the erratic scratching sound bounced around the room for a while. It was somehow comforting.

"How much longer do you need me like this?"

"Not...too long. I just want your nose right...", a few swipes of pencil and,"okay...you can move."

John took a deep breath in rotated his neck, rubbed his shoulder a bit, and rose to his feet with the help of his cane. He'd needed to make tea hours ago.

The pencil kept scratching against the paper. Beatrice was still drawing, logging his movements and body positions in long swipes of line. She dropped the pencil haphazardly and immediately grabbed one of the many that were jammed between the fingers of her passive hand.

"You have a nice face. It's friendly. Good for a doctor."

"Thanks." It'd been a while since someone looked at him with anything but distrust.

"Cute accent too...well I guess I have the accent though, don't I?"

John filled the kettle in the sink, still leaning on his cane and grumbled out an agreement.

"Where do you think I'm from?" She followed up quickly.

He gave a puzzled look to the wall in front of him, and turned his head, "What?"

"My accent, well, it's American, but can you tell where I'm from?"

John gave her a questioning look until she stopped drawing. She pointed to the book on the floor in front of his chair.

"The book your reading, 'The International Dialects of English'?"

He blinked a few more times until he followed where she was pointing. "The International Dialects of English", oh yes, he'd just finished it...

And beneath that, in bright red pen, in his own handwriting:

_I take the precaution of good coat and a short friend._

Beatrice was still staring at him expectantly as he looked back up to her. It was a tad embarrassing, but she hadn't seemed to notice the writing.

"Oh...well...I've only just finished it now. Still...digesting the information so to speak...", John said slowly. Anything to get out of this awkward situation and back to whatever he was looking for in the dozens and dozens of books left with him.

"Cmon! Have some fun. I'll say some words maybe you can guess."

The book hadn't exactly covered everything, and had only had pronunciations written down. It covered regional dialects in North America, but most of them didn't make sense on paper. John didn't have a chance to check out the audio CD that had come with the book. God, had he absorbed any of the information at all?

"Okay ummm..." Beatrice tapped the pencil against her book rapidly, "Okay!... 'Phone'."

John cocked his head and snorted a laugh, "Didn't realize there was extra 'o's and 'u's in that word."

"Oh and you say it correctly, with your pretty accent! 'Phone! Phone!'", Her attempt at mocking an English accent was adorably atrocious.

"My God, alright, we don't all sound like Micheal Caine..."

"Could ya get the phone, guvnah!"

"Okay, that was mangled Australian bordering on Swedish...I'll give it a go if you never do _that_ again."

She nodded, grinning at him as he returned to his seat with a cuppa. He looked at her as she mouthed the word 'phone' to him again.

"I'll make it even easier for you," she announce, clearing her throat and readying a sentence, "_If I'd known you were gonna get me water, I would've shown more gratitude._"

Definitely not a midwest or southern regional accent, he knew that much. John began to it run through his head; did she say water with o's? 'Gratitude' came out with more e's than the word called for, sounding like it could be spelled 'gradeetude'. Not West coast either or North west...

"East coast...", John announced.

Beatrice's eyes began to brighten.

"Yeah?..."

"North east. It has to be."

"Very good!"

"But not...New York. How the hell did you say 'water'? Were you saying wood at one point?"

She laugh, "Ya know, the people I met in California said kinda the same thing? 'Wooder? You know you're suppose to spell it with an 'a', right? Or do you mean, like, a tree or something?'"

John smiled back at her, "So I was pretty close then?"

"I'll give it to ya, though I would've been really impressed if you could've pinpointed it exactly, but it's not like I can even begin to guess where you're from, it all sounds the same to me. It's so nice to hear how other people talk, don't you think?"

"Yeah..."

Sherlock would've known.

"Okay, doctor how about this one? 'Pahk the cah in the Hadvahd yahd'. What about that? That's easier, right?"

He could've figure it out from the way her nose wrinkled when she said a word...

"Doctor...Doctor Watson?"

Or the way her mouth formed shapes around syllables...

"John?"

He wouldn't even have needed to hear her, would he?...

"John!"

"Uh...yeah sorry, what?"

There was an odd look of concern on her face, "I'm gonna go now okay?" She nodded slowly. He could only continue to stare.

Her smile slowly returned, it was soft and warm, "This was nice though... Anytime, you know, you're lonely... you can come pop downstairs. I'll show you some of the work I've done... if you're interested..."

John was still a bit dazed. It took him a second to form a reply, "Yeah...yeah, oh yeah of course, I'll do that."

Beatrice focused on him, remaining still. Studying him.

She tore a page from her drawing book and handed it to him, standing from the chair.

"You really do have a friendly face, a bit sad... but...nice to draw."

John looked down at the paper as she left the flat. It looked like him. Nicely done too. And she was right...

He did look sad.

...


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks everyone for reading. Read and review with any thoughts. This is when things pick up and John finds his inner badass again.

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><p>John scratched his chin as he rested back on his heels. The wall, in fact was dented from the few weeks before. At least the wallpaper ended right before it got to the dent. Easier fix that he'd though.<p>

Mrs. Hudson hovered over him.

"Can't even tell it's there anymore! Thank you, John, you're such a dear."

"It's not a problem at all." John said as he struggled to stand. Mrs. Hudson leaned in and took him by the arm, pulling him up. John paused for a long moment and looked up at her. She didn't need to say anything at all, he saw it in her faltering expression.

'_Please just let me help you up, don't be angry with me. This isn't out of pity.'_

He leaned into her to steady himself as the older woman did what she could to get him to his feet. John immediately grabbed his cane, clearing his throat as he shifted his weight to his stronger leg. They stood there in silence, staring at the patched wall together, both unwilling to be the first to speak. They already knew what the other would say, and it wouldn't make things any better would it?

"Thank you, John, dear...", Mrs. Hudson grabbed for his hand and patted it gently.

He tried to be cordial, but knew his reply of, "Hell what better do I have to do," came out so very bitter.

The older woman didn't look angry or hurt. Just...understanding. Maybe that was worse.

The doctor and now current wall repair man nodded quickly, making a retreat back up to his flat.

"John!-"

He stopped on the stairs immediately. The way she said it, his name, it cracked ever so slightly, he didn't want her to be crying, oh please don't be crying. John didn't want to be pitied...

"I was thinking, since you aren't working anywhere in specific," well that was a light way of putting completely unemployable, "you could...make house calls. I have a few friends who can't leave easily, I'm sure they would love to have you come by, as a consultation."

A consulting doctor, the title almost made John laugh.

"Yeah, maybe..."

"Oh! And I just remembered, that Inspector fellow came by here earlier in the morning while you were still asleep, I told him I'd tell you."

John knew that Lestrade had come by, he'd seen him from the window. He also knew that ever since _then_ Mrs. Hudson had been on a mission to keep John comfortable, and if that meant keeping others at arms length, specifically her arm thin and frail as it was, she would do so.

She was so strong for him. Mrs. Hudson, the buffer between him and the outside world, until he was ready to see_ them_ again.

London would indeed fall if Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street. Or at least, John Watson certainly would.

He would call Lestrade later. The former Detective Inspector needed all the help he could get too, what with the inquiries and the impending trial. They knew it was coming after everything had been cast into doubt, all of Sherlock's good work. And he wasn't even around to defend it that _selfish bastard._

John cleared his throat and nodded, not daring to turn around still, "Thank you I'll give him a call."

...

The night was crisp and fairly clear. John had a window cracked open. Winter was beginning to cupping it's hands over the city streets, blowing a gentle breeze that caused the people still out and about to shiver and pull their coats closed.

John had finished his eleventh book, a special one, because it was written by Sherlock himself. He'd found it while digging through the shelves of texts, looking for a medical book that he knew Sherlock had owned when it seemed to drop out of nowhere. It looked like an ordinary book; the binding was a blue leather, it looked fairly new, but when he opened it, there was no mistake who's sharp, sheer handwriting donned the pages.

It was like finding a buried treasure.

It was Sherlock's notes about everything, from the shapes of fruit seeds to the _two hundred and forty three _types of tobacco ash, which was a surprisingly interesting read. He'd even attached little pictures to the pages next to certain types he probably deemed more exotic than others. Cuban cigar ash was very lumpy and pellet shaped compared to normal flaky cigarette ash.

"I wish you hadn't taken this off the site, someone could've used this I bet..." John said to the empty chair across from himself as he slowly turned the pages of 'All the Knowledge under the Sun minus the Knowledge about the Sun of course'.

John let the pages fall through his fingers until he came to the very last page, where he discovered a very thin leaflet of paper tapped there. It almost bought him to tears. A picture of Sherlock and himself, from that day at the station when they prodded him into wearing that ridiculous deerstalker hat.

God, the look on the man's face was a priceless mix of bitter embarrassment and vague amusement. '_Just wait until I get to make you all look like the idiots, then we'll see who's laughing_', was probably the thought going through the consulting detective's head.

And the John in the picture? He was smiling from ear to ear. He looked strong and so sure of himself. In that moment they were the best and the brightest beings in that room. Bulletproof. Nearly legendary. Criminals feared them and people told stories of them, slightly aggrandized stories (his own were of the most romanticized) but they were beautiful stories nonetheless.

How did they both fall so far?

He sat there smiling to himself for a few moments, flicking the edge of the picture with his thumb, drifting into his memories, drifting...

There was a loud crashing sound. John snapped from his reminiscing, body still, head raised, eyes searching. And then a loud thud.

It was coming from below.

And then a scream.

He darted up quickly, running down the flight of stairs, pressing himself against the wall. He looked at Mrs. Hudson's door. It was locked. She was safe.

He could hear begging, in a woman's voice. The new renter, Beatrice, in 221C, oh god, why didn't he grab his gun?

"Please please I don't know what you want!"

She was sobbing, he could hear it through the door and then louder as he pulled it open slowly. The room was drenched in darkness. John could see a looming figure standing over the woman as he approached slowly, so slowly down the stairs that were notoriously creaky from disuse.

The man was tall, thin, very thin and it added to the menacing feel of the scene. He had a blade in his hand that glinted in the faint moonlight. His fist clenched and unclenched slowly. Beatrice was curled on the floor, hands wrapped around her head still chanting.

"I don't know what you want! I don't know! I don't know!"

It all happened so fast. John's muscles wound like springs and sent him bursting forward into the man's back as the perpetrator turned to look over his shoulder.

John's instincts took over; _Control the knife. Force the head away, forearm to his neck. Disarm him. Kill him._

As John bent the man's wrist awkwardly and wrenched the knife away, the attacker recoiled instantly, abandoning battle completely. The intruder lithely dove through the window he'd broken in from, the small sliver of a window that it was, and disappeared.

The soldier was panting, hand squeezed around the knife handle tightly. Beatrice took one look at him and began to cry louder, sobbing into her forearms as her head rested on her knees, hands gripping into her hair.

"Are you alright?" John said in the most controlled tone he could muster. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins like boiling hot water.

She choked on her own whimper and took in a shaky breath.

"Did he hurt you?" His tone had become stronger. Beatrice looked up. Her lip was bloodied, the man had caught her across the face good with the back of his hand. Her arms were banged up. John could see the bruises forming in the pale dull light already. Her cuts were superficial. She was fine, she would be fine.

Beatrice threw herself to her feet and at John, clinging to him, crying, stuttering out, "I don't know! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know!" Over and over again between heavy, hiccuping sobs.

...

John had finally calmed Beatrice down and led her into his flat. He needed medical supplies, some plasters to take care of her cuts. She sat still as he gently took her arms and extended them, rotating them slightly to better survey the damage.

"Doesn't feel too painful does it? Nothing looks broken from what I can tell..." He reassured her.

She was looking away to a far corner of the room, sucking on her swollen bottom lip in a daze. Her eyes were rimmed in red that gradated into the pale white that made up the rest of her face. Her eyes drifted to the piece of jagged metal, the make-shift knife the man had used. Thankfully she hadn't been stabbed. It would've done more damage than a normal blade.

"I..." Beatrice's breath came out shaky, "I don't know...what..." She was winding up again for another hysterical fit.

John looked over to the blade and quickly hid it from sight under his chair, "Look at me, look at me..." He waited until her unfocused eyes found his face, "he's gone now. You're alright. Nothing's going to hurt you," he said slowly, assertively.

Her mouth hung open, "If...if you hadn't come in there when...," She took in a deep breath, "He would have killed me..." she managed out, eyes welling with tears.

"But I did. And he didn't. You're safe here with me. It's alright..."

"I don't know what he wanted...he kept yelling for me to give him the bag...I was so confused...I-I panicked..."

John applied the last of the bandaging and looked up at her, eyes narrowing in thought.

"Do you have something expensive with you? Jewelry...something valuable? Anything that someone could have seen when you went outside today? Something you pulled out of your bag without thinking?"

Beatrice shook her head slowly, "I-I have... my art supplies...and...and...a bank card but... I don't have anything."

She looked back down at her arms. They'd turned a light shade of black and blue in places.

"Beatrice, I want you to sit here, I'm going to get some ice for you to put on your lip before it swells up too badly alright?"

She nodded, watching him move quickly to the kitchen and throw open the door to the freezer and grab a few pieces of ice, rubbing them in his palms before handing them to her.

"Put this on your face, don't keep it there too long, just move it around...good," John watched her rub the ice until spots of blood showed on its surface. "Now... I'm going to go down to your flat alright?-no, no," He began to say through her protests as she reached out for him, "It's alright. I'm going to be right here, in the floor below. Whatever that man was looking for, it's still in with your things down there...it's going to be fine..."

"W-what if he comes back?"

Beatrice watched as John paused, then made his way over to the mantle, dislodging the knife that was stuck into its surface, pinning envelopes in place. In a long stride he reached his desk and pulled out his handgun, gave it a good once over before cocking it and handing it to Beatrice, who handled it as if it were a hot piece of coal.

"Look at me again. Don't move from this spot. Do you understand? Repeat it back to me."

"'Don't move from this spot..." the woman replied in a whisper.

John nodded, "I won't be long."

John took three steps toward the door before he heard a faint, "Wait!" He turned.

Beatrice was staring at him and then looked back to his chair and pointed, "Don't you need..."

There sat his cane, propped against his chair, forgotten...

John looked back to the young woman who held so much worry in her eyes, "No I'll be fine."

...

The flat, 221C was truly a disaster, though if it was from the attempted burglary or the messy resident he couldn't tell.

John knew the man wouldn't be back. If he gave up that easily the first time, there was no way he would return now that the awareness was heightened. It was the reason he gave Beatrice an unloaded gun; it would give enough of a feeling of security to stay put and calm herself down. Of course she didn't need to know that.

The small window near the ceiling had been kicked in competely. The frame lay on the floor, the glass broken in pieces. John tried to picture what Sherlock would be seeing, what he would be doing, how he would be breaking down what had occured (that is if the detective didn't dub this all too boring). He could almost see the consulting detective, floating about the room like a spectre, beckoning him to the broken window.

_Obviously has experience being a theif. Strong legs, strong enough to kick out a window, so also an athlete..._

He could hear his friend's voice in his head so strong and certain.

John continued on for him as the voice seemed to fade from his mind, "...But this time was different...He's not use to armed robbery, he gave up the fight too quickly...he's use to breaking and entering completely unseen...but this time...he was angry? Or scared..."

For a while John just stood there wondering what it all meant, wondering if his assumptions were even close to the truth at all.

"What's going on?"

John heard the concerned whispering in the voice of his landlady coming from the top of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson looked bleary eyed and half asleep, probably a side effect of her new pain medication for her bad hip.

"Oh my-what happened here? Have we had a break in?" She pulled her robe around herself tighter.

"Yeah it looks that way." John crouched down and picked through the pieces of broken glass, "Man kicked out the window. Ms. Horn is upstairs in B, she got a bit banged up but I took care of her."

"Oh my god! Should I call the police?"

The question was a loaded one. If any of _them_ at New Scotland Yard saw the address of the attempted robbery, they would come running, whether it was their division or not. They would assume it had something to do with Sherlock. God, John couldn't stand the though of seeing them, and the thought of possibly referring to Sally a "Detective Inspector"...

John shook his head quickly, "No, not yet. I'm looking into it."

"Oh...alright..." She watched him move about the room, digging through a tan duffle that was thrown into a corner, "Do you know what you're looking for?"

"..No," he admitted, "not really, well, a bag apparently."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled quickly across the room and pulled an olive green messenger bag from beneath a pile.

"I came down here before when she was showing me one of her paintings. She takes it everywhere."

John took the bag and pulled up the flap, digging his arm inside. The landlady cleared her throat and he stopped instantly, "Don't you think it's a bit improper to be digging around in a woman's bag?"

"I told her I was coming down here to look through her things. Besides, I think she's more concerned with not being murdered at the moment," He took the bag over to the table and began to pour its contents out.

"oh!I'll take a look through her luggage then! Can you believe she still hasn't completely unpacked?"

John grunted in response. There was nothing unremarkable in the drab green bag; wallet, tissues, an entire tree worth of pencils...

John threw the bag down on the table with the rest of the objects. As the bag hit he could hear something hard, something still inside the bag hit the wood. He stuck his hand in again feeling about until he felt a rip in the smooth lining. He made the tear larger so he could fit his fingers past and grabbed on to the smooth object.

Mrs. Hudson sighed loudly, surrounded by three open cases of luggage, clothes strewn about her, "I haven't found a thing!"

John held the biggest, bluest gem he'd ever seen, "I think I have."


	4. Chapter 4

I hope you guys still enjoy this. Really is wonderful to see such nice feedback. I haven't written in a long time so it's cool to see people still kind of enjoy my stuff. Again, feel free to read and review frankly.

I'll probably end up editing this more later, but I needed to just get it up and stop sitting on it.

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><p>...<p>

Beatrice stared at the giant blue stone being held in front of her, dropping the piece of ice she had held to her lip. Her mouth fell open.

"Is that real?"

John replied in a clipped tone, "Real enough for someone to come after you and try to kill you for it. You want to tell me how you got this?"

With her mouth still hanging open, Beatrice could only shake her head. Mrs. Hudson hugged herself worriedly, eyes fixated on the impressively large precious gem.

John continued in the same slightly harsh tone, "It was in the lining of your bag..."

Beatrice's eyes flicked from John to the landlady and then back, "No, no! Please, you have to believe me! I have no idea how that got in my bag! I know how this sounds, but please! I didn't steal that from anyone!"

He searched the distraught woman's face for a sign of deception. She appeared terrified and confused, but not as if she were lying.

"Please..." her last plead came out in a weak whisper.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his arm and leaned close to John's ear, "I think she's telling the truth, John."

He looked back at the old woman, who looked almost as wide-eyed and upset as Beatrice did.

"Alright...fine. Let's assume for now you didn't some how come to own this by unsavory means and it was planted in your bag," John sat down in his chair, rolling the gem over and over in his hand, "When could someone have planted this on you? We'll figure out the 'why' later."

Beatrice frowned in though, "I travel around a lot but...the last time I put my bag down and I wasn't watching was at the art supply store a few days ago. I was buying a new pallet knife because one of my smaller one's were bent to hell."

It felt like an unlikely place for the gem planting event to occur but it was a start. Somehow he felt he should already know where the gemstone had come from and why it had been left with the artist. Could it have been a family member? Or was it just a random stranger who needed to ditch the attention grabbing object on an unsuspecting victim to lose whoever was after him and his stolen prize?

"This is exciting isn't it? Another case again for you John!" Mrs. Hudson seemed to fluttered with excitement, "It can be just like old times! You running around!"

John shook his head, "No, no there's going to be none of that."

Beatrice cocked her head, "You use to be a private eye?"

The landlady continued proudly, "John use to fight all sorts of baddies! He was like one of those crime fighters on the tele! He and Sherlock were amazing you should have seen them! So much fuss over the both of them-"

"Alright!" John snapped loudly. The two stared at him, startled. "Alright, enough of that, I'm going to make a few calls and find out what to do about this without getting the police involved until we need to."

Mrs. Hudson looked guilty, afraid that she had upset him, "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

Well, now John felt like an arse for snapping like that. He murmured an apology that surely didn't reach the ears of his landlady as she made her hasty retreat.

"D'you...d'you think I could stay up here?" Beatrice mumbled to him. She had curled up on the seat. The rush of excitement was dying off and it made her look shaky and exhausted all at the same time.

"Yeah," John gestured to the stairs leading to his room, "you can sleep in my room if you'd like..."

Beatrice had already closed her eyes and leaned back into the chair.

"Or there's fine too." He murmured to himself.

John crept away from his seat, mobile phone in one hand, jewel still palmed in the other. He sat the rock down on the counter and stared at it as the phone rang through.

"Hello?"

"Greg, hi-"

"John Watson is that you? Haven't heard from you in while, mate! Everything alright?"

John turned his body slightly away from the nearly sleeping young woman in the old chair, "Actually, I think I have a bit of a problem I may need your help with..."

...

John stood at the door to Lestrade's home. He'd never been to the (former) D.I.'s flat before, but it was as he imagined it might be; small, packed in with others like it, grey and slightly dingy on the outside. Understated and gritty like Lestrade himself. The door swung open and Greg greeted him with a smile.

"Welcome, Doctor Watson, to my humble abode."

"S'good to see you too, Greg. It's been a while, considering..."

"Considering how I was at your doorstep nearly every day?"

"Yeah, basically," John returned his grin.

He seems to be taking his unemployment well, the doctor mused. John noted the few empty bottles of beer that were lined on the counter top as he sat down on the lumpy couch. God, this felt surreal. There should have been a third party in the flat, nosing about, pacing until it drove both men mad, yelling out absurd and slightly insulting remarks about sexual habits or personal issues with spouses...

Lestrade could feel the lack of presence also, as he stood silently leaning up against the small kitchenette counter facing John.

"You said somethin' about needing my help, right?" the grey haired man cleared his throat.

"Yes, well..."

John took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. He scratched both hands over his head. How the hell does one go about broaching the topic of attempted murder/theft and the finding of a possibly invaluable gem?

Well, Sherlock would come right out with it wouldn't he? Not John's style, it'd be best to at least preface the entire event with some background detail. Lestrade had enough stress to deal with, as was evident in his more-white-than-grey hair.

John began slowly, "Now, I want you to know I'm coming to you and you only, because I trust you."

Lestrade nodded, "Of course..."

"And this matter is to be handled with the utmost secrecy, because of...third party involvement."

"...Wait, you haven't murdered anyone have you?"

"What?"

"Please tell me you haven't I'm not going to help you hide a body, unless it's that Moriarty fellow, then I'll help you, gladly, but otherwise-"

"No! God no! Why-what? Okay, look," John reached into his pocket and tossed the blue gem onto the coffee table in front of him. Somehow it seemed to get bigger each time he looked at it.

Lestrade's eyes went wide, "What the hell! Is that-?"

"Real? Yes. Very much real. Real enough for someone to nearly be killed over it at least..."

And John began to explain quickly, about the new tenant, the break in at 221C, and how he'd found the gem in the lining of the woman's bag. Greg was wide-eyed the entire time, completely enthralled. After the explanation, there was a long stretch where neither spoke, only the ticking of a clock kept the room from being completely silent.

"...And that's... why I've come to you." John paused, gauging Lestrade's reaction, "If I go to _them _it'll only bring me more trouble, you and I both know that..."

"But..." Lestrade sputtered, "Christ, John! Even without Sherlock-bloody-Holmes trouble still manages to find you doesn't it!"

John grumbled, "God...don't remind me..." he dug his palms into his eyes.

"So...what? D'you want me to take it down to the station? Claim I found it at the bottom of a cereal box?" Lestrade sounded bitter as he barked out a laugh, "Because they trust me just as much as they trust the lawbreakers they take in off the streets in handcuffs!" Lestrade's tone became bitter, "You'd think I would have a scrap of respect left but you'd be wrong..."

"I know...I know, I'm sorry... I just...don't know what to do otherwise. The woman, Beatrice, told me she's no idea where it's come from."

"And you think she's telling the truth?"

John paused and then nodded, "Yeah, she is."

Lestrade gave John a long look. A grin broke out on his face.

"How pretty is she?"

John scoffed, "It's nothing like that!"

"Oh come off it, John," Lestrade had opened the door to his refrigerator and was fishing around until he came up with two bottles of beer, "She's obviously stolen it!"

John shook his head, "Nah, it was too easy to find, and believe me she's not the mastermind criminal type."

"Fine, if you think she's innocent...I trust your judgement," Lestrade handed a beer to John, "but we should all be so lucky as to get priceless jewels dropped into our bags."

The former detective sat himself down next to the former consulting detective's assistant and stared at the deep blue gem, "So where'd you want to go from here," Lestrade took a long drink and then dangled the bottle in his fingers, "I'm assuming _you _want do something about this yourself, since you don't want to get the law involved..."

"I do, yeah."

Going to the Yard was out of the question. It just was. He could do this himself. He could. With Greg's help, they could solve this.

He could read in Lestrade's eyes, what he wanted to say.

_Doing this isn't going to bring him back, John._

John couldn't hold back the slight snarling of his lips, "Just...do you want to help me or not?"

"Course I'll help ya...of course...Hell what better do I have to do. Sit here? Wallow in self-pity?"

They both took long hurried swallows from their bottles, each for different reasons.

"Do you still believe him?" John hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. It was so abrupt, but the thought came so quickly and hurt so badly that if it weren't said, John might have been sick.

To John's surprise, Greg didn't appear taken aback at all. A small smile dawned on his lips and then quickly disappeared.

"If I didn't believe Sherlock Holmes, even for a second, I wouldn't have answered your phone call, John..."

John could read between the lines; You're half of a whole and if one half was not to be trusted, then the other was certainly as much of a lie. It lifted John to know that Lestrade didn't think he was mad like others did. At least he still had someone on the outside...

The ex-soldier cleared his throat, "Well, um...an investigation then, if you're up for it, was what I was planning on," John took another long drink of his beer. It was far too early to be drinking, but then again he was far too poor to have a precious gem in his possession, "I've got a lead I want to check out, see if I can't find out where and when someone planted that on her."

Lestrade nodded, "I can take a look to see if there's been any reports of theft from private collections and museums. If I've learned anything from Sherlock it's how to worm my way into a locked cabinet of case files..."

John hoped they were both ready for this. Lestrade certainly was, at least he use to be a real detective. What was John? An ex-army medic, an ex-detectives assistant, an ex-doctor nearly all together, and to anyone who read the papers, a mad man and an enabler...

Maybe he should just take the gem and drop it off somewhere, at a police station, let them handle it, tell Ms. Horn to leave the country, quickly, and be done with this nonsense.

Lestrade could sense the doubt clouding over his friend.

"Don't worry," the smile on Lestrade's face reminded John of those times at crime scenes when Sherlock would cast light on to an entire investigation. That smile made John feel new again, and it pushed the doubts away slightly. "I think we both need this. And we're going to make him proud of us," Lestrade took another long drink, "or as close to proud as the obnoxious git could get."

Maybe they could take on a case without Sherlock's intervening. John would never admit it, but the thought of possibly making his friend proud of him, even post-mortem, lit a fire in his gut and made him feel alive.

John let out a short laugh, "God, he was a dick wasn't he..."

"On my top ten list of arses. Held the top spot for a while..."

They sat together in silence for a few moments.

Lestrade shrugged, "Still wish he were here though..."

John's throat clenched slightly as he choked out the words,"...God, so do I."

...

John returned to 221B to find Ms. Horn up and about. He bristled when he saw the mess she'd made. How she'd ever found the newspaper clippings that John had gathered over the time he and Sherlock had solved cases was anyone's guess.

She was biting at her nails, hovering over the clippings as if they were going to walk away the moment she turned from them. Her head shot up at the sound of John's footsteps.

"You...I've read about you before...I couldn't remember the name but once Martha mentioned it...you're _Robin_."

She held up the picture of himself and Sherlock together in those ridiculous hats when they'd attempted to avoid the cameras and flashbulbs of the media. Those photographers were persistent. The headline above the picture read "Hat-man and Robin: The web detectives". The title always struck him as funny, but Sherlock complained about its lack of inspiration. John knew the detective didn't have a clue as to the reference.

"Where did you find all of those?"

"Drawers, around here, you know, in the places where you kept them..." She gestured with her hand, eyes fixated once again on the newspapers, "You were amazing the two of you, like, comic book amazing and that's coming from someone who use to be an animator...heym have you ever seen 'The Great Mouse detective'?"

"I want you to put everything back now, or you know what? Just leave," John said angrily, "I have everything under control now, so you don't have to worry about any of this and you can go and continue painting and traveling-"

"What! No!"

"Why not", He shot back quickly.

"Well, for one you can't guarantee that I'll be alright...and, technically the jewel is still mine. And I want it back! Now!"

"I am not giving this back to you, no, so you can forget that..."

She frowned in an almost disappointed way, "I use to read your blog you know..."

John laughed bitterly, "Should've taken the damn thing down." He mumbled.

"You don't mean that..."

"The hell I do-"

Beatrice cut in quickly, "What happened?"

John clenched his jaw, "If you've read about me, then you've read the papers and you know what happened-"

"That's not what happened though..." She shook her head slowly.

He took a few deep breaths, "It doesn't matter what happened really though, does it? Because no matter the story, the outcome is still the same."

John began to gather up the pieces of newspaper, very gently.

"...I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry you just have to leave."

She reached over and began to carefully stack the clippings, "I want to help, I can help you..."

John looked up at her and she looked...different. Is this what the late consulting detective saw in his own face when he first looked at John and invited him into his world?

"You can't guarantee I'll be safe." She continued, "I have to guarantee that myself. I'm not going anywhere."

She wore a look of fearlessness made completely of apprehension. Determination which was purposely chipped at its edges, made to look like apathy that she'd probably worn her entire life to keep things as simple as possible, but at it's core was still boldness. John saw this all in an instant and felt closer to late friend than he'd ever had.

_Would you like to see more?_

_ Oh God, yes._

"Fine...I have no right to take that from you..."

She let out a sigh of relief, "Thank you..."

"You can take me to the last place you were then. The supply store you said right?"


	5. Chapter 5

Was hit hard with a case of the real life stuff goings on, and finally, finally got around to rereading and fixing this chapter. Ugh. I am so sorry. :(

Please enjoy though, I think this one is my favorite chapter now. Go little story go!

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><p>Mrs. Hudson returned John's nervous look with a slight smile. He cupped her cheek gently and kissed her forehead.<p>

"Just for a couple of days alright? I want you somewhere where I know you'll be safe," he murmured to her in a calm tone.

The old woman tried to hold a smile and nodded, "Of course I'll go. You don't have to ask me twice. You know I trust you, John," she replied with a purposefully unworried tone, as she in turn kissed her tenant on the cheek, "You take care of yourself, whatever it is you're about to do, just promise me you'll _try _to be safe..."

"Of course..."

"And take care of that young woman. She seems a bit...off...but I think she's a good girl."

Right outside of the open door, Ms. Horn was attempting to hail a taxi cab, waving her arms around in a way that was probably scaring more cabbies away than attracting them.

"Oh goodness", the landlady murmured as she watched her new renter flail her arm about. A half smile broke out on John's face.

"I'll try my best with that one."

He gave Mrs. Hudson a more confident smile before he parted with her. She shut the door behind him, the knocker clattering against the wood.

As Beatrice tried madly to wave down a cab, John grabbed her shoulder gently, and then stuck his arm out into the air, beckoning a cab over within seconds. She scoffed at him and muttered, "Of course they stop for you, you _look_ British." John rolled his eyes at her comment, trying to hide his small smile. He held the cab door open as she piled in and began pulling out papers from her coat pocket.

"I know I had a receipt, or I took a business card or something...with the address on it...hold on," she said to no one in particular as she scooted over into the car.

The cabbie stared at John with a look of obvious annoyance, John could tell just from his eyes reflected in the rear view mirror.

"Where do you want to go?" the driver said roughly, voice gravely and low. He sounded as rough as he looked. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he narrowed his gaze at John who broke off his stare quickly.

Beatrice finally fished a bent up card from her pocket, "Ah! I've got it. Cowling and Wilcox, 26-28 Broadwick street...here," she leaned forward and handed the man the bent up business card. He simply grumbled and started the car.

John stared out from his window. I'd been a while since he'd been in a cab...

'With a case to solve', he thought to himself as a sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips. A cab ride felt different when there was somewhere important to be; Job interviews, grocery shopping, those things weren't _important_, they were_ boring_.

_Dull._

A mystery or an adventure...they was important.

"So, what are we gonna do?"

John looked over to his companion, "Pardon?"

"When we get there? You have a plan... right? I mean we're looking for something specific?"

A plan? No, that was Sherlock's department. Most of the time John was never privy to "the plan", and was more or less thrown into a dire situation attempting to help the mad genius where ever he could. Usually with a firearm. And besides, John was only really good with...

_Leg work._

Beatrice stared at him expectantly. For the first time the implications of his actions hit him as hard as the bump in the road they'd just gone over; he was the detective now. He was the lead with someone trailing behind him. It sent a thrill up his spine. _John Watson had a sidekick._

Suddenly the ridiculous image of himself laid out or in a chair, arms stuck with god knows how many nicotine patches, mentally traipsing around his very own mind palace, texting someone who would rush to his side just so he could ask them for a _bloody pen _struck him so hard he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The car coasted further and slowed to a stop at a red traffic light.

He cleared his throat, pushing his undulating emotions down in one hard swallow, "Yes...of course", He began, trying not to seem so out of his depth.

_I'm putting my best man on it._

John took a sharp breath in, "We'll begin casually, I want you to point out who you saw on that day working in the shop."

The woman nodded slowly.

" If there are any customers you recognize, tell me. If anyone's missing from the staff, let me know too. Show me where you walked, what you looked at, everything in as much detail as you can recall..."

Beatrice took this all in, nodding, looking up to the ceiling as she attempted already to gather herself and remember precisely everything and everyone she'd interacted the last days she'd visited the area.

"Okay...I'll try to remember as much as I can."

The car turned sharply.

"And if you happen to some how recognize the man that attacked you, if he's there... I want you to leave that shop, get in a cab, or just walk as far as you can until you get back to Baker Street." The command worried her a bit, her eyes widening at the prospect of seeing her attacker. She rubber her arms involuntarily.

"You go up to my flat and you stay there. Lock the door and don't answer it," the soldier continuted, "That's our green zone," he thought it an odd choice of words and rephrased, "our safe house, alright?"

The cab came to an abrupt final stop.

"Yeah, okay," she locked eyes with him and gave a quick smile.

"Good," John ducked out of the cab and quickly assessed what he could.

The shop was on a nicely kept, open street. With a red brick face as a back drop, the yellow and brown store sign practically yelled for attention, even in the early setting sun of the fall. It didn't seem likely to be a place for a high profile crime to be comitted. John knew the area well too. He'd been to a pub down the street a bit with Mike a couple of times. It wasn't far from Baker Street at all, which made it entirely possible for the intruder to have just followed the young woman home or stalked her for weeks to find an opening. The thought gave John a chill. He wouldn't mention that bit to her...

Beatrice tapped the cab after she'd paid and joined the blogger-turned-detective on the sidewalk, walking around him until she faced him.

"Okay," She took a deep breath in and held her fingers to her temple. John had the urge to mention something about a mind palace, but kept it to himself.

"I remember it was raining so I went inside quickly," She started out, "There were people with umbrellas-well of course there were, that's kind of dumb to point out..."

John shook his head, "No just...keep going, I'm paying attention."

She began to gesture more and more as she got further into detail:

"There were dumpsters here, down that alley," she pointed sharply, "A white truck parked there and-" Beatrice began whispering a count to herself, "...three, four. Four cars parked out front," her fingers were moving in short bursts as if she were trying to grab at invisible cars parked across the street and line them up as they were, "I remember because three were blue and I thought it was interesting to see three beat up blue cars all together and a nice black car on the end."

John had his phone out and was snapping pictures of the street, some of the surrounding buildings, and the front of the shop, "Nothing out of the ordinary though? Anyone talk to you? Stop you? Walk too close?"

She shook her head, frowning, "No...no..."

"So then you went into the shop?"

"Yes!" She spun around to the front door and pushed it open quickly. As she breached the entrance she quickly gathered a sense of propriety. It was almost endearing, John thought, watching posture change. She put on a (not very convincing) poker face, and attempted to act nonchalant as she began to walk about the store.

She whispered details to him over her shoulder, pointing to employees and shoppers. He nearly laughed at her. She'd make a damnably terrible spy.

The store was utterly packed with tools and equipment. The store rows were narrow and the shelving was tall, with space in between each where one could see into the next isle through the tightly packed shelves.

It was seeming more and more plausible that their failed burglar had spotted Ms. Horn, followed her about for a while, dubbed her to be an easy mark, and planned the gem stone into her bag. But why? The reason still eluded him.

If the police had known about the burglary, it would have been plastered all over the papers by now...

Maybe this was an international incident? The jewel was brought over from another country?

Or possibly the gem was a hot item already, lifted years ago and sold around in some illegal market and finally stolen? It would explain why there was nothing in the papers about it...

And if that was so, could there be more than one man working the job? Had one greedy thief snatched the jewel from the others, and decided to conceal it, and come back for it later?

Would there be more people after them?

John sighed. How the hell did Sherlock piece things together so easily when there were nearly dozens of possibilities as to what _could _have happened, and another dozen things that could happen next?

He quickly sent the pictures to Lestrade in a text.

_At shop. Will be over later to talk. Have you found anything? -JW_

Maybe the ex-DI had found something useful. A police report about a stolen high priced item kept hushed up? He could only hope.

Beatrice stopped at the end of an isle, seeming as frustrated as John was. She'd gone quiet ages ago and instead was sweeping her unfocused gaze over the floor and shelves as if looking for an answer.

"I can't think of anything significant that could have happened besides me putting my bag down on the counter," she frowned.

"Those two guys behind the counter?" John nodded to the two young men behind the counter who seemed disinterested in stocking the shelved behind them, except at a snail's pace.

"They were here last time, but they were _so _obviously high on something_."_

"Don't worry," John said confidently with a quick smile, "I have all that I need. I'm going to see Greg later tonight-"

"Greg? Who's Greg?", the young woman looked worried, voice snapping.

"A good friend of mine who's helping me out with this matter, he's the ..._former _Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard."

Beatrice seemed rather impressed, shoulders dropping in relief "Oh! So he was like your friend Sherlock, right?"

John couldn't stop the laugh and the "God no!" that came out after. It might have been construed as insulting towards Lestrade, but really, the man would wholeheartedly agree.

"But he's still very intelligent and capable." John held the door open for Beatrice, "He won't be ratting you out to the Met or anything."

"Good! Hah! I was worried there for a second when you said 'Detective Inspector'-"

She stopped abruptly as the man coming from the opposite direction on the sidewalk cut them off. From under his jacket John could see the glint of metal, a small pistol being pointed at Beatrice. Her gasp was choked in an effort to keep it from turning into a scream. John held his hands in front of himself in a placating gesture.

The assailants words came out in a gravely growl, "Turn around, walk into the alley. Now. Both of you."

"Alright...alright, just put the gun down, we're going."

John grabbed Beatrice's shoulders as she mechanically turned and walked between the buildings.

"Stay calm," he murmured to her. She nodded, staring directly ahead, afraid to turn around until she was told.

"Both of you stop," the man pointed at John with the pistol and motioned to the wall, "You over there. And you, miss, empty your purse and give it to me."

John watched as she slowly, so slowly, dumped the contents out and at arms length held the emptied bag out to the man, head facing away as if not recognizing the gun would make it less of a threat.

The man patted down the bag, and growled, "_Where _is it?"

She shook her head, biting her lip, "I don't know what you're talking about..." she squeaked out.

"Bullshit." The man cocked the gun.

"Hey..." John cut in.

"You shut up!" The man turned the gun on John.

"_I don't have it anymore_! Someone else _stole _it! Just leave us alone!"

"That is a_ fucking _lie, young lady. Now you tell me where it is or I'll blow his fucking brains out. And then I'll blow your fucking brains out."

She began to sob as her pleads became louder. The man looked away from John for a split second, staring the girl down while advancing on him, pushing the gun further towards John's forehead, threateningly.

In the course of his life, John Watson could only recall five events where he had experienced falling into that zone between thought and pure action. Two were in action, out in Afghanistan. Three involved Sherlock. All of them felt the same.

Things felt slow, and sounds felt muted.

His nerves were on fire.

His arms shot up quickly, pushing the man's hand with the gun upwards, as he simultaneously slid down the wall far enough so that the shot that was let loose by the gun missed his head.

His arms locked out. The assailant looked panicked. Before he could pull the weapon away, John delivered a punishing kick to the inside of his leg. He doubled over in pain as John darted to the right, wrenching the gun from a weakened grasp, and leading the attacker away from the young woman.

The man's face contorted in pain and rage as he lunged at John, who fell backwards and fired the pistol.

There was silence for a split second after the loud crack from the pistol.

Beatrice held her hands over her face letting out small high pitched sob that sounded like John's name.

The attacker laid completely limp on top of the soldier.

"John...John!"

He tried to push the dead body off of himself, grunting in pain as the joints in his bad shoulder finally reacted to the impact of the fall.

Beatrice moved quickly grabbing the shoulder of the now dead assailant, rolling him off of John who was panting and covered in blood. He sprawled back quickly, gun still in hand, trying to set his breathing right again.

"Oh god...Oh god, John..." Ms. Horn stood over the body who had it's back facing him now. The young woman paled and pointed, "Our...he was our _cab driver_..."

She began to hyperventilate.

John crawled over quickly despite the growing pain in his limbs and rolled the man so that he faced the darkening sky. It was unmistakeably the face of their cab driver, obvious even in the dim light of the street lamps that shone dully in the alley way.

...

"John!..John?" Lestrade greeted him cheerfully and then revised his tone to a more questioning one as he observed the disheveled and bloodied man who was accompanied by a pale, red eyed lady.

John passed the wide eyed man with only a mutter of, "fucking cabbies".

"Beer's in the fridge..." Lestrade called after him weakly.

"I need something stronger." The young woman said in reply as she followed John quickly, eyes set on the floor.

John pulled a bottle from the fridge, pulled the cap off and swallowed it all in nearly a few gulps. From somewhere, Lestrade had no idea how she'd found it, the young lady had his flask, which he was sure he'd hidden _very well_, and was nursing it with the most sour look on her face. She gasped as she finally let up on the poor thing.

"Alright, which one of you is going to tell me why _you _are bloody, why _you _are white as a sheet, and why you're both drinking my alcohol as if you're racing to see who can get sclerosis of the liver quickest?"

John wiped his mouth off and pulled his jumper over his head, discarding it as if it were on fire, "We were attacked," his undershirt was tinted pink with blood that had seeped through. Not much of an improvement.

"By who!"

"Our cab driver," Beatrice choked out, "_Our cab driver tried to kill us_, when does that _ever _happen!"

John looked at Lestrade as the both shrugged in a gesture that said 'a lot more often than you think'.

"Oh and I'm Beatrice Horn...by the way," she waved her hand at the formality, leaving it out for a shake. Lestrade took her hand politely although she was obviously more interested in drinking every last drop in his flask than an introduction.

Lestrade looked over to John as she was distracted, giving him an appraising nod and a thumbs up. John rolled his eyes thinking, 'Not the time, Greg...'

"The blood is from our now dead cab driver," John continued the story, "He came at us out of no where, pointed a gun and ordered us into an alley. And he knew what he was looking for, he knew about the gem..."

Lestrade started in, "So the robber who broke in at Baker Street, that was him? He's dead now?"

John shook his head grimly, "Nope. This man was far too big to fit through any window and wasn't nearly fast enough-"

"John disarmed him," Beatrice added, wide eyed and partially inhebriated, "It was amazing...like...he was like a ninja...so fast," She turned to face John as he rubbed his face, "You are FAST."

"Alright, yeah we got that, here," John walked over pulling the assailant's gun from behind him and handing it over to Lestrade, "That's what he pulled on us."

"Serial number's all scratched off. Your cabbie was a hitman."

"Yeah, but not a very good one, no."

"At least they can't trace this back to you..."

John nodded, the implications of a murder investigation that would possibly collide with his own freelance, and not-so-legal operation gave him pause for thought.

"Whoever stole that rock was trying to get some heat off of himself or herself, I can tell you that much," Lestrade said, still studying the gun, "This isn't the first time someone's tried to steal that thing."

John's eyebrows knitted together. Lestrade exited the room and quickly returned with three manilla folders stuffed full of papers, "Don't ask me how I came about those...what I've done is probably more illegal than you shooting your criminal cabbie."

John pulled the paperclip from the first folder and opened. Beatrice leaned forward slightly, watching John's reaction as Lestrade continued, "These three are the only ones that have successfully lifted your blue carbuncle and got away with it. Wasn't enough evidence to convict any of them, but it was obvious. They were master thieves, of course they were going to walk out of the courtroom completely free..."

He spread the pictures of the three burglars out on the table; the first was a woman, tall, dark hair. God, her police photo could have been used in a magazine advert for perfect skin or hair. She looked unabashedly smug in every photo. She vaguely reminded him of the late Irene Adler.

The second was a man, oddly short and very heavy if the info given on him was correct. His face was pock marked and his nose look like that of a drunk. How he'd managed to be a professional, let alone infamous, thief was beyond him...

And the final file, the heftiest of the three contained information in English and French, but only one very small photo of a very proper looking, mustachioed gentleman with cheekbones that could rival Sherlock's.

"He's good lookin'," Beatrice slurred a bit as she nudged John with an elbow expecting him to agree. He rolled his eyes at her.

Lestrade sat down and leaned in over the files, "Every time they were put on trial for stealing the gem, the damn rock would pop up in an unexpected place and would be returned to it's rightful owner, whoever that was at the time, and the case would be dropped...last time we picked it up, someone'd found it at the bottom of an orange juice container in a Tesco if you can believe that!"

"So stealing the gem...it's like a game to them?"

"I thought the same thing. Seems that way doesn't it? But this time it's different. Every other time it was stolen, it belonged to a private collection. Turns out now it belongs to a traveling museum exhibit. Last man to own it was some philanthropist who left an entire private collection to them. Apparently some royalty of historical significance owned the blue gem originally..."

Lestrade ended on a shrug as John tried to let all of the information sink in, "But there's been nothing in the papers about all this?"

"The best I can think is that they're trying to keep this as quiet as possible. Hell, there may even be a case file about all this already, but you know I can't get to it. I could barely get my hands on these..."

John's mind reeled at the possibility that they were being hunted by at least three thieves who were looking to get back what they all considered to be rightfully theirs, a prize they'd been competing over for years...They were thieves but were the stakes so high that they would resort to hiring hitmen and recruiting gang members to come after them? At least he had faces to pin the possible stash-and-dash to.

John gathered up the files neatly after mulling over them for an hour, noticing that Lestrade and Beatrice had both fallen asleep in their chairs. He leaned back in his own lumpy seat as the television hummed quietly in the background, steepled his fingers, and thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Apologies for the lack of updates. I hope this is okay. Had to rewrite an entire part because it was just so blah. Hopefully the real lifes will stay at bay for a while longer. Enjoy. Feel free to call me out on any mistakes please.

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><p>...<p>

John woke with a start. The clattering of a coffee pot on the stove behind him threw him from a dream he couldn't recall now, but the feeling of apprehension was left lingering. It wasn't the first time he'd felt anxiety like this after sleep, in fact waking in such a way was more normal for him than the gentle tug of consciousness that he assumed normal people had when they woke. John gathered his faculties quickly. He remembered the night before, the cab driver-slash-assassin and the discussion with Lestrade in his flat.

John had fallen asleep in the lumpy chair, something he immediately regretted as he felt this back tighten in a knot that would only uncoil after hobbling about for a while.

"Up already, John? Made some breakfast if you're interested," Lestrade called to him from the small kitchen.

Oh god, food sounded wonderful, when was the last time he'd eaten? John glanced over, spotting Ms. Horn still asleep in her own chair looking peaceful. Lestrade poured coffee and slid the mug to the end of the counter as John approached, bent slightly at the waist, hands held to his lower back as he tried to straighten himself out properly.

"What time is it?"

Greg glanced at his watch, "Nearly six-thirty."

John shook his head, "The day I sleep later than seven is the day I'll 've died."

Lestrade smiled, "You and I both. Old habits, aye?"

John hummed in agreement, as Lestrade raised his coffee cup in turn. John took mouthfuls of the strongest coffee he'd probably ever tasted and cringed as he'd forced himself to swallow.

The jewel sat between them on the kitchen counter, unhidden. Really they should find a better place to put it other than pockets and shoes.

Lestrade had it "hidden" between the cushions of his old chair the night prior; really it'd fallen out of the pocket of his flannel pajamas while he slept. He'd never tell John how he searched a good fifteen minutes for the priceless object in the creases of his sofa, finding it along with a few loose coins and clots of dust. Though, John would probably find it funny as funny as he did.

"I've got a safe in my bedroom, we can stow it in there for a while...can't just carrying it around with us can we?""

John nodded, "At least until I get the proper address to the pawn shop."

Lestrade nearly spat out his coffee.

"Sorry! Sorry no, we're not pawning it...god no...er..." John quickly grabbed a file folder from the table in the main room, "The Russian man," he pointed fervently, "Nikolay 'Krysa' Petrov. His case file is most recently updated. His conviction record is completely clean since the late eighties, but he's been implicated in several burglaries, the most recent being in the early two-thousands; the theft of our lovely blue stone. Despite all the mountains of evidence against him, he was let go... but not before he spilled everything he could about our other two thieves..." John shook his head, "The man was on all accounts completely guilty. He is good I'll give him that..."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes in interest with a smirk, "Completely guilty but set free? Well, go on, now you've got me interested."

John grinned, "They could not figure out how a man his size could fit through a window half his width and over eleven feet up. There were no ladders nothing around that could have possibly gotten him to that window and through it.

"The rightful owner of the jewel purposely kept his entire collection in a small enclosed space, restricted natural light source, nothing that could possibly compromise the integrity of the paintings in his collection. There was only one door leading to that room and the security was something to behold. No one got into that room except for the collector..."

Lestrade skimmed over the file, "And yet Mr. Petrov's footprints and fingerprints were found everywhere."

"He's either the most spry obese man I've ever come across or he's made a deal with the devil, but his nickname suggests..."

Lestrade cocked his head, "What? _Krysa_?"

"It means 'rat' in Russian. I've been called colorful things by some Russian soldiers. You try catch on quickly to other languages when they're spat at you," John cleared his throat, "Rats can squeeze themselves into tiny spaces...I have a feeling we're dealing with a contortionist...I giant, double jointed Russian, who's good at scaling walls, and has a pension for tattling on other thieves."

It really couldn't get any more ridiculous. John barely believed what he was saying.

"Eliminate the impossible and whatever is left however improbable..."John muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

John looked up quickly, "Just...thinking aloud..."

Lestrade shrugged and returned to the file, "So he's apart of a protection program, that's why you think he'll be easy to track down?"

"Yep. Thieves mustn't have been the only people he was talking to the police about..."

"And you think he's at pawn shop because...?"

"Using my honed deduction skills, which is to say that I'm going with my gut instinct, which isn't very scientific, but it's better than saying that I'm channeling my consulting detective from beyond," John smirked, "You think you could worm your way into the computer system at the Yard one more time?"

The former DI let out a long noisy sigh, "You know you're making it hard for me to miss Sherlock acting like you are, trying to get me into trouble...are you sure he hasn't possessed you?"

"God, I'm not that rude yet am I?"

...

Lestrade tapped away on the keyboard of his laptop, bouncing his leg nervously. The rhythmic thumping woke the young woman curled up on the chair across from him. A smile flickered across his face as she sat up bleary eyed and looked at him. Ms. Horn took a long breath through her nose.

"John?..."

"Shower. He'll be out soon, you're welcome to one next if you'd like, but I'd give it a bit, the hot water isn't quite right..." Lestrade's leg continued to bounce nervously, as he rubbed his hand across his face. His smile faltered as he looked back down to the computer screen.

"Is everything okay?"

"Hm?" The sound came out louder than he meant, "Fine, yeah! Too much...coffee."

John padded into the room, dressed in borrowed clothes, hair still damp, "Good, you're up."

Beatrice smiled as Lestrade snapped the lid to his laptop quickly and turned to John.

"Wasn't too long, you could probably pop in now if you wanted to, Bea! Show her where the washroom is John, I'll be right back!"

Lestrade hopped up quickly and made for the front door, mobile phone chiming in his hand.

"He seems bothered..."

"My fault probably," John beckoned her with a nod looking a bit guilty. He'd have to go tell Lestrade that it was fine if he couldn't get his way into the file system again at the Yard. They could find another way. It wasn't worth getting arrested over, not when there were so many other things they were about to do that merited incarceration.

"Towels are in the cabinet," John reached into the shower and cranked it all the way to the hot end of the old dial, "Learned the hard way there is no warm water anywhere else on the dial."

"I really appreciate this..." Beatrice said quickly.

"Well...I didn't think you'd want a cold shower...so...not a big deal..."

"No, this...what you're doing...trying to solve all this mess. I know it's not just about me. It's about your friend too, but I'm still grateful..."

John couldn't deny the late consulting detective had a constant presence in the back of his mind, not without blatantly lying.

"It doesn't bother me. He was important to you and Greg."

The shower water continued to run as they stood in silence for a moment.

"He must have been important. You've stuck up for him... I've seen what they've written about you in the papers..."

He'd been aware for a while what the tabloids began to print about him. Liable. Fake interviews. Claims that he'd tried to commit suicide multiple times after being smeared so badly by the media. All because he refused to ever admit Sherlock was a fraud. How could he? He wasn't...

"Then why do you trust me."

"Because," she paused, mulling over her words as she glanced at the ceiling, "No one goes out of their way for someone they barely know like you have. You're not just a run-of-the-mill friend or acquaintance or nice guy...you're..." Beatrice let the sentence hang unfinished swallowing a lump in her throat, "And I bet you were just as important to Sherlock as he is to you..." She quickly bit her lips together after the words came out, fearing she'd crossed a line.

John had to look away as his eyes welled up.

The shower began to fog up the mirror and created a cloud of mist that floated about their heads.

"The water's gonna be cold," he managed to choke out before he left, shutting the door behind himself.

The door gently snapped shut behind him. He braced himself on the wooden dresser, inhaling and exhaling slowly until he'd calmed himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade seemed very proud of himself as he snapped his old mobile closed, entering the home with a wide smile.

John was sat in the cushy sofa, still rolling Bea's words over in his head.

"I've got a lead on our Mr. Petrov, address and all, and you'll be pleased to know that your gut- instinct detective work was spot on," he gave John a light tap on the shoulder as he sat down next to him.

John returned the smile, mood lightened by Lestrade's pride in his sleuthing, "Got back into the computers at the Yard? You made that out to be a lot harder than it really was, I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

Lestrade's expression faltered a bit, as he nervously flicked his mobile open again as a message chimed, "Had a bit of help." he murmured to himself, sending off a text after a flurry of movement across the phone's buttons that impressed John in its speed. He'd only really ever seen one person send a text that fast.

"It's a pawn shop about an hour from here. We can take the tube, should drop us off right in front of the place.

I'd bring your gun though. The area isn't too friendly..."

The street they emerged onto was dingy and grimy and felt dark even in the midday sun. A deep colored, runny stain seemed to settle over the lighter concrete areas near the tops of buildings, leaking down between bricks and around the molding of windows.

Passersby walked with their heads down, or eyes fixed on their mobile phones.

A grouping of younger people down the road a ways screeched loudly, almost in unison. John ignored them. Beatrice seemed slightly interested, staring intently.

"Don't pay them any mind and they won't bother you," Lestrade nudged her, giving her a reassuring smile.

"The one boy started watching us, right as we came up from the train and crossed the street and hasn't stopped looking at us." She murmured.

The young man in question was using the rest of his comrades to shield him from view, cleverly trying to keep his attention from notice. He didn't appear threatening, or look menacing; he only stared at the three with keen interest.

Lestrade nodded Bea over to John, and mumbled to the doctor, "We're being watched..."

John followed the man's quick glance to the distant group. He held the jewel tightly inside his coat pocket.

"I'll stay out here. You take Bea in there," Lestrade spoke in a low tone, "I've got my phone on me. If there's a problem..."

"Right," John nodded, Beatrice following him inside.

A loud buzz sounded as they opened the door. The stout man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper, surveying the two through narrowed eyes. Bea smiled. The man returned her smile with a bit of a smirk and readjusted himself so that he was more leant forward.

A smile flickered across Bea's face. She gently pulled away from John, smirking slightly at his confused expression.

The shopkeeper's gaze followed Bea as she approached the far display case, giving a worried look over the jewelry.

"Is something wrong?" The man called over, folding up his newspaper and waddling over to her.

"I'm really sorry to bother you, but someone's stolen my favorite ring," She fiddled with the bottom of her shirt, whether the nervous gesture was manufactured or real, John couldn't tell, "And I'm really so sorry to bother you...this is so silly..."

"No no! It's no problem!" He replied in a thick accent, "This is not silly at all! I would love to help you miss..."

"Morstan," she answered quickly holding out a hand to shake his.

"Petrov," he offered in return.

John perked up.

"I could pay for it if it were here, I know you couldn't just give it to me."

"No, no, no I do not want stolen goods in my store. Not stolen from such a lovely young lady..." Petrov laid a hand over her's.

"Maybe after we find it you can tell me how much it's worth. You must know jewelry pretty well to run a pawn shop!"

"Da, it takes a trained eye, fake stones are well made now, very convincing..."

"I bet..."

John had slowly approached the two as they conversed and was now only a foot away. Beatrice reached into his coat pocket and drew out the gem, "Maybe you can tell me how much this is worth then..." John's eyes went wide.

Petrov squinted at the jewel on the glass before him. His eyes went wide moments later.

"_Where did you get that_?" He growled out.

John grabbed for the gem but Petrov caught his hand quickly and held it there, "_Where." _He rasped.

"It was you..." Beatrice muttered, glaring at the man.

Petrov immediately let go of John's wrist, practically shoving his hand back. A desperate, fearful look crossed his face quickly, "Get out."

"What-"

"_Get out_!" The man roared, "_Get out or I call police_!"

John lunged forward over the glass case and grabbed the man by the collar, "_Not until you_-"

Petrov slipped from the grasp, lightening quick, leaving John gripping at an empty overcoat. Without a second look, Petrov dashed towards the back room of the store.

Beatrice scrambled over the counter as John ran around, giving chase, drawing his gun. Messy heaps of what looked to be expensive antique furniture and over-filled filing cabinets littered the backroom of the pawn shop. But Petrove found no difficulty squeezing past shelves, hopping over an ornately decorated ottoman, and sliding under low table as he made his escape. It occurred to John as he slammed his shin into a low, open file cabinet drawer, that Nikolay Petrov had probably planned this escape route, and could probably make his way through the room in the dark.

"The door!" Bea pointed, weaving through a set of shelves. John looked over quickly, automatically taking aim as he saw the door snap shut quickly.

He shoved over a tall carving of what looked to be the masthead of a ship (as ridiculous as that was, it wasn't to be counted over the fact that they were being outrun by an obese, though very quick, Russian jewel thief).

Bursting through the back door, John expected their quarry to have gotten away, not to see Beatrice throwing the man against the wall with the entire force of her body and she growled through gritted teeth.

"_I've nearly been killed twice because of you! You are gonna tell me why the hell you left that thing on me!_"

The Russian sputtered as she grabbed his shirt collar and in an impressive display of strength, pinned him against the wall nearly picking him up off his feet. John looked on wide eyed.

"_Where did you get this and why don't you want it? Why?"_

"If you start answering questions, I promise I'll get her to let you go..." John said with an underlying tone of amusement.

Petrov nodded frantically.

John put his hand on her shoulder and pried her away, but her gaze lie intensely on the jewel thief still plastered to the wall in fear. He pointed his gun up at Petrov sternly as a threat, to keep him from fleeing and an incentive for him to talk quickly. Somehow the Russian seemed less perturbed by the gun and more by the daggers still being stared at him by the young woman just behind John.

Petrov began quickly, "The jewel, it is no good..." he stopped, flustered, seeming to lose the words in translation.

John tilted his head, "A forgery?"

Petrov nodded quickly, stuttering out a few stray vowels, muttering to himself in Russian, "I do not want, is very bad."

"Yeah you said it was a fake-"

"NO! Not just fake! Some people want from me, I do not know why! I left in bag, at airport, her bag!"

Beatrice practically snarled at him.

"I am sorry, truly I am but I cannot help you now. I do not want to help you now, if I-"

A shot rang out above the alleyway. John flung himself back, away from Petrov, pushing Beatrice with him.

The Russian man slid down the brick and slumped to the ground, dead, blood pouring from the bullet wound in his chest.

John's mobile rang out. Another shot was fired. Beatrice managed to pry the back door to the shop open and they both scrambled through the backroom maze and to the front.

Lestrade stood outside phone held up to his ear. He spun around as John quickly walked to him, "I tried to call you, I heard gunfire..."

"Just walk. Quickly. Don't look back."

Beatrice crowded behind them.

The streets were flurried with store patrons and pedestrians panicked running into stores and out from them, ignorant as to where they should be to find safety. Police sirens could be heard as three and four and five people they passed all quickly called out street names and numbers to emergency crew. The three shouldered their way through the few groups of people who clung to the sides of stores.

They ducked into a side street quickly and then down another smaller street until they were alone.

"Please don't tell me Petrov is dead John," Lestrade began, "or at least tell me you didn't have to shoot him-"

"No...no, someone knew we were there, someone shot him because he was talking too much. He didn't know a whole lot but whatever he was going to get into whether it's who was after him or something about this goddamned rock, they didn't want us to hear it...where's Beatrice?"

Beatrice leaned slightly around the corner of the outlet at the other end of the tight corridor. She gestured for them to come over quickly and quietly, pointing as minutely as she could at the young man standing before the brick will finishing up a large circle with spraypaint. It was the boy who was watching them, the one outside of the store.

He tossed the can of yellow spray paint color swatch on the can made John's stomach do backflips as he watched it clink and tumble across the bumpy asphalt.

Beatrice grabbed his arm. John looked to her and then to Lestrade who looked drained of color. He followed Greg's eyes to the wall.

In big dripping yellow letters, the freshly sprayed tag read:

GET JOHN WATSON.


End file.
